Mothers
by Midsummer's Day
Summary: Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you're thoroughly convinced your mother's drinking addiction was caused by your existence.


A/N: I was inspired by the theory that was floating around when Roxy's name was revealed, which stated that Rose, the Seer of Light, couldn't see Roxy, the Rogue of Void, since Rose cannot see those empty spaces. I thought that maybe Rose could only see and remember Roxy if she herself came in contact with her, like walking into her room accidentally, but she couldn't if Roxy tried to contact her.  
>Anyways, enjoy!<p>

* * *

><p>Your name is Rose Lalonde, you're eight years old, and you're starting to worry. No matter how hard you try to focus on the numbers and symbols on your math homework, you keep glancing at the front door, then to your clock, which flashes the bright red numbers 1:34 A.M. Your house is eerily silent, and it only reminds you how alone you are. Your only company are the wizard statues and paintings around you. You pull your knees to your chest, wrap your arms around them and shiver violently. How much longer will you have to wait? Out of worry, you haven't even reached the half way mark for your homework that's due tomorrow, and your eyes have been growing increasingly heavy for the past hour and a half.<p>

_"I'll be right back, sweetie."_

Your mother's words echo in your head. That was four hours ago. She didn't tell you where she was going, but when she leaned down to kiss you, you got a hint as you could smell her perfume, her freshly washed hair that was styled perfectly like the actresses you saw on old TV shows, and her lips were stained with the color of California's Sunset, or what you think it would look like. You just pictured what the label on her lipstick said. You raise a hand to where she kissed you. A part of you feels scared, and another just feels angry. Angry for how she's just left you. Angry about how she's not getting any better. Angry because you already know how your morning is going to play out; Your alarm clock will wake you up just hours from now. You'll rise slowly out of bed, tired from lack of sleep. You'll shed your PJ's and try to find something that matches in your drawers, but your mother always knew what looked best, so your outfit may be a little wonky. You'll fix yourself a lousy breakfast made of Cheerios and milk, or in the unfortunate event that there isn't any more milk, apple juice. You find it kind of odd that Mother buys you all these other extravagant food items, like top grade steaks, mountains of full, ripe fruits, and any type of pancake flavor mix you can think of, when she isn't ever around to cook it herself and you sure as heck don't have the knowledge, or time, to know how to cook pancakes or steak. You'll gather your school things and prepare to leave, but before you do, your sympathetic side will take over and you'll just have to venture into her room to check on her. It's a fifty-fifty chance she'll be in there. If not, she'll be on the living room couch, curled up in a ball, clutching a martini glass that has spilled on her dress. You'll shake her awake, she'll grunt a response. After a few matches of tug-of-war with her arm, she'll wake up fully, or as fully as a hungover woman can be. With angry eyes you'll demand she gets in bed, and she'll stumble off the couch and walk off to her bedroom. And then you'll go to school, where you'll try to hide the fact your mother is a crazy drunk.

You bury your head in your knobby knees and sigh. Once again, you're stuck wondering, is it all your fault? Was your birth an inconvenience to your Mother? Did you not make good enough grades? Were you too pesky, too annoying, too bothersome? Did you ask too many questions? Was she ashamed of you? Were you too _anything, _so much of something that she had to get out of the house almost every night to escape you?

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the keys jingling outside the front door. Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly tense up. You're relieved she's finally home, but you hate her characteristics where she's inebriated.

Finally, the front door opens, and you're reunited with the visual of your Mother. She takes one look at you and exclaims, "Oh, God, it's freezing in here."

Yeah, you noticed.

She goes for the thermostat. Her body bumps against the walls, and with the way she's walking, she might as well have two left feet. Her fingers glide over the thermostat, and it takes her a full minute to get the heater to kick on. She sets down her purse and keys on the coffee table, then collapses on the leather couch.

"Mom?" You try to make it loud enough for her to hear, but it comes out only a bit louder than a whisper.

Her head rolls to the side. "Mmm?"

"Mom, maybe you should go lie down in your bed."

Her eyelids droop and flutter, like a butterfly's wings against a strong wind. She gives in, and her eyes shut completely. With the volume to match your own, she reply with only a soft, "O..okay."

And she's gone.

* * *

><p>"Who reeks of wine?"<p>

"Probably Rose! She's becoming an alcoholic, just like her mom."  
>The class laughs. Your teacher doesn't notice, as she looks old enough to have been on the Titanic and survived. You breathe in, out, real slowly as to calm yourself down and not do something you'll regret. You're smart enough to know not to respond to their teases, but you still feel like flying out of your seat, reeling a fist back and slamming all your hatred and stresses down on their faces. You keep your composure and keep staring down at your composition notebook. You rest your head down on your right hand to hide your smile.<p>

Writing always makes you smile. It's what you take solace in. Even if it's perceived as weird to others, you'd love to do nothing else but make a living out of it. You have confidence in your writing, even if you are a little shy and don't like to show your works to anyone else, even your English teacher, who prods you to write more stories and tells you your work is fantastic for a person your age.

What your English teacher doesn't know is that you've pursued the lifestyle where you want to know everything. You want to be intelligent, more so than your mother, so you never fall victim to a lifestyle like hers. Maybe one day, you could publish a book, and make tons of money. You cold send your mother to rehab, and you could fly out to see all of your friends; John, Dave, and Jade. You entertain the thought so deeply, you don't notice that someone is calling for you.

"Rose!" Your head snaps up. Every head in the class and every eye is fixed on you. Great. More fuel for their taunts about you dipping into the sauce like your mother, and being drunk at school.

"Yes?"

"Gather all your things, your mother is here to pick you up."

It takes you a second to realize what she's said. It's only midday and she's already up? You're a bit scared of the fact, as only bad things would have to happen for her to fetch you out of school, or for her to even get up so early. You close your notebook, grab your textbook, throw it all, including your pencils, into your backpack and walk across the room. You can hear the whispers of your classmates, which doesn't help your imagination.

You find your mother sitting in the attendance office, clad in the same bright white button down dress. Everything about her looks professional, clean-cut. She looks at you with her illuminated blue eyes and smiles.

"Ready, Rosey?"

Looks like it's not too early for her to one-up you. You silent commend her for her showmanship. You nod a reply. She signs you out and leads her to the car parked right out front. You slide in, and instantly you're overcome by the warmth of the car. Summer is almost ending, going by the calendar, but it's still as hot as the middle of July. You don't find the heat oppressing though, for some reason. Instead, you feel almost...calm. The quietness of the engine starting up, the lack of music, the soft noise of the AC blowing. Despite what you want to feel, and what your classmates say about your mother, you're happy to be with her.

"Why did you pull me out of class?" You ask.

She slows the car to a stop at the intersection outside of your school parking lot. She looks right, left, right, then replies, "I forgot to tell you this morning that I'd be attending a class today, and I didn't want to worry you when you got home and you wouldn't find me there. You don't mind getting out of class, do you? It's Friday anyway. And that game you were waiting for, I forget the name, but doesn't it come out today?"

You're surprised she even knows about the game. Maybe it was just another point for her to know so she could show you up. And a class? What class would she be going to? "So, I'm going to be home alone?"

"Uncle Dirk is at the house. He'll watch over you."

Uncle Dirk wasn't really your Uncle, but he's been taking care of you like one since you can remember. You generally enjoyed his company, as he was a funny person, and was almost a master at strifing. You often wondered if you could take on your mother with all the skills he's taught you.

You're sitting down for lunch (an excellently made sandwich thanks to Dirk) when he asks, "Is there anything in this house that isn't booze?" He's rummaging around in the cabinets, working up a sweat to find something other than alcohol and juices to drink.

"The only other thing besides juice is milk." You take another bite of your bacon, egg, and cheese grilled sandwich. He stands up and sighs, and you have to keep yourself from laughing at his shades, which lay lopsided across his eyes.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I really wish your mother would get over her addiction."

"Don't we all?" You stare down at your plate.

"At least she's getting better. I find her to be maturing these days, seeing as how she has returned to college."

Your head jerks back up to him. "She's going back to college?"

He nods, and starts to make himself a sandwich. There's a moment of silence before you ask, "Why did she drop out of college?"

"A friend of ours worked with her on a project for a game. They were great friends, even more than that, but things didn't work out between them. It's quite obvious that your mother still reaps the spoils of her fortune from their works, but also obvious is that fact that she misses him."

Something strikes you odd about all of this. It takes you back for a moment. There was a man in your mother's life? You feel silly for thinking that, because of course there was a man, how else were you born? But still, the thought of your mother losing someone like that has you feeling pity for her. She never talked about your father, and you never asked.

"You do know that your mother loves you, right?"

You give him a quizzical look. "What?"

He licks off the mustard on the knife. "She may not be the best mother in the world, but she does her best for you."

You let that sink in. You look out the kitchen window, and think about what what he's just said in the silence that fills the gap between you two.

* * *

><p>Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and yet again, your mother seems to not give one fuck about you.<p>

"Mom!" You yell at the top of your lungs. It's your fifteenth birthday, and so far the only people to seem to care are your friends online, and the only thing you've celebrated with are the empty martini glasses in your room. Despite your cries, your mother doesn't turn around. She just continues her dusting. You can feel the tears pooling at the edges of your eyes. You walk down the stairs, breathing heavily from your anger. You feel like you could punch her, but could you really? Could you ever hurt your mother, even if she did ignore you?

"Mother!" You scream louder. You lay a hand on her shoulder and shove her, but your strength is too little to do any damage. And yet, she still doesn't turn around.

It's been going on for months now, this ritual where she doesn't acknowledge you, and you absolutely abhor it. You've taken up drinking because of it, and underneath the facade you put on for your friends, the whole situation is tearing you up inside. What did you do to make your mother so angry, she pretends like you never were born? To expel you out of her life?

Tears stream down your face. You'd give anything for someone to just hold you, to tell you that you matter. But who you really want, is your mother. And you cannot have her.

You retreat to your bedroom, broken and empty. Your computer is blinking, telling you that a chum is pestering you, but you don't feel up to talking to anyone. You sink into your bed, pull the covers up to your chin, and curl up into a ball.

You feel stupid for thinking anything could change. You wipe away the tears with your sheets.

When you have children, you'll definitely be there for them. You'll buy them the most extravagant food items, be there for support, take interest in whatever they like. You'll be there for them, no matter what.

You think of all the wonderful things you will do when you're a parent until you're on the verge of falling asleep. You can feel yourself slipping from the grasps of consciousness, but the sound of your door creaking open pulls you back into reality. You figure it's the cat, so you don't bother opening your eyes.

Although, what was this feeling that something was looming over you? If you weren't mistaken, you could hear the sound of a_ human _breathing, not little soft cat breaths.

You had to be dreaming.

You feel a hand on your hair, and soon that hand is extending its fingers, and those fingers are playing with your hair.

You had to be dreaming.

"I forgive you." That voice. That voice belonged to your mother. That smooth, almost deep voice.

She...forgives you?

You just had to be dreaming.


End file.
